It seems to me at times that the soldiers,
Do not come from the bloody fields,
Not in this earth have lie once,
But have turned to the white cranes.
They till this day since those distant times
Flying and give voices to our.
Not therefore either so frequent and so sad
We become silent, looking in the heavens?
Today, at the before evening times,
I see, how in the fog the cranes
Flying by their same guard,
As on the fields by the people they went.
They flies, makes their long way
And calls someone's names.
Whether not therefore with the crane call
From the century the Avarian speech is similar?
Flies, the tired wedge fly on the sky -
Flies in the fog on the outcome of the day,
And in that guard there is an interval small -
Perhaps, this place is for me!
Become the day, and with the crane flight
I will float in the same grey haze,
From under the heavens as the bird's calling
All of you whom has left on the earth.
While the Earth spins.
Makhachkala, 'Daguchpedgiz' 1976.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem